


Choices

by Rellie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-03-07 15:02:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rellie/pseuds/Rellie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of events with Lady Stoneheart and the Brotherhood without Banners, Jaime faces a hard decision.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Choices

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tamjlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamjlee/gifts).



> Okay so quite some time ago a bunch of writers decided to write something to cheer lovely commentor tamjlee up. And because I SUCK and had writer's block my contribution totally stalled. Until now.

The snow began on the fifth day. It was slushy, wet snow that wasn’t settling on the ground yet but was a sure sign of things to come. Jaime stood by the open door and watched it grimly, mulling over becoming stuck out here in this ramshackle little house, with no supplies and no horses, would mean a death sentence. He hunched his shoulders as another icy gust whipped up, setting the small cabin creaking, and chilled him to his bones.

The wind was worse than the snow, as it seemed to find every damned chink and crack in the wall and bring the frost inside. He’d dragged the ransacked dresser in front of the worst hole but it still curled round the edges, making him curse and shake. Every night it tore at the hut, causing the shutters to rattle and the door groan on its hinges. Anything that could be used as a blanket he’d piled up on Brienne so he was left to blow on his remaining hand and wish there had been more firewood. But, he reasoned, a fire wouldn’t be the best idea, and it could easily bring down on them anyone who were still marauding out there.  Still, in the dead of night, when Jaime felt sure he’d die of the cold, he didn’t think he’d care that much.

He put a hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper, buckled around his waist, taking some reassurance from the touch, though it was doubtful he’d even get a chance to draw it if they were attacked. All he could hope for was that whoever it was that found them first was merciful and gave them a clean death.

With a sigh, he backed into the marginally less freezing darkness of the hut. There was a single flickering lamp lighting the bare room, casting a golden glow over everything, filling the creases in the blankets on Brienne’s bed with murky shadows. As he watched, the flame jumped and stuttered in the wind, throwing strange shapes across the walls. Quickly, he shoved the door closed behind him.

Jaime picked up the chipped bowl he’d set ice to melt in and dipped in a rag he’d torn from his shirt. The cold water would have made anyone jump but as he leant over the bed and pressed the cloth against Brienne’s face, she didn’t so much as stir. Familiarity had softened the ugliness of her features to him. Her sleeping face was too strong, too scarred and misshapen to ever be called pretty, it was true, but he had come to find it comforting to look upon. His hand was red and stinging from the frigid water but he kept gently wiping at her cheek ~~~~until he had cleared away the mess from the wound.

He was poorly equipped to be a nursemaid, that much was for certain. Two hands would have helped, for a start, some supplies were also essential, as well as maybe somewhere to shelter that didn’t have a damned great hole in the side.  He knew enough to keep her warm and to clean her injuries but, despite seeing wars and battles aplenty, he’d never really dealt with the wounded. They were simply spirited off somewhere by the maesters and sometimes they came back, sometimes they didn’t.

Her sweat beaded skin still burnt hot under his fingertips, barely cooled from the damp cloth, her stomach heaving as she drew in one shuddering breath after another. He washed her other cuts twice a day, as thoroughly and as carefully as he could manage. The one in her stomach wasn’t a problem, since, by some miracle, it seemed the sword had gone through clean, missing anything vital. Those had already stopped bleeding and had started to crust over. She’d have scars, of course, but they’d be far from the worst.

It was the bite on her face that was the cause of her burning sleep, he was sure.  It ~~~~had been infected before she’d even come to him and now it was festering. Even _he_ knew that once a wound smelled as strongly as this, there was precious little hope to be had. Still he drained the thick, reeking yellow pus from it every day, bathed the gaping hole and wished he could get his hand on whatever bastard had done it to her.

She moaned quietly, head rolling against the pillow and, for a moment, Jaime held his breath, waiting to see if she would wake.

“One more day,” he told her sternly, the words rough in his throat. “One more day and then if you don’t wake up, I’m leaving you here.”  He’d said the same thing yesterday and the day before. Soon he would have to mean it.

 

When the snow came again, it came in earnest, drawing a white curtain across the dismal landscape, hiding the grey trees and muddy ground from sight.  When Jaime opened the door to squint out into the white abyss, the wind dashed the snow into his face, burning bitterly cold against the part of his cheeks not covered by his beard. Each moment he wasted here brought more and more snow down and lessened his chances of surviving.

He wrestled the rickety door closed again and walked slowly back to the unmoving figure on the bed. “I said one day, so wake up. Now.”

Her sweat-dampened hair was clinging to her skin, her eyes flickering maniacally under her closed lids. Each gasped breath seemed to pain her more than the last, and it made his chest ache just to listen.

His hand tensed on Oathkeeper and then slowly, slowly he drew the sword. The blade glinted in the flickering light, the edge sharp and ready. One thrust was all it would take and she’d be released from her torment while he’d get a fighting chance at living. It was kindest for all involved really. He’d never balked at doing what needed to be done before.

Yet, his hand was shaking.

He put the sword down on the bed with a defeated sigh. Apparently he wouldn’t be keeping his word.  _Why_ ~~~~ _break the habit of a lifetime after-all?_

“You lied to me.” He hadn’t really meant to speak and his voice sounded raw, hoarse to his own ears.  And yet, he continued on. “You betrayed me. I should want you dead. I should leave you here to choke on your own vomit.  I told you that I couldn’t forgive your treachery. I said you deserved your head on a spike for it.”

When he’d realised she was leading him into a trap he’d felt like he could hardly breathe. He should have known it was wrong, since she’d be so distant on the journey there, too nervous. He had known it, maybe, on some level. But he’d followed after her anyway, like a damned faithful dog at her heels. Because he’d made his choice to be a better man, to believe that he could be honourable again. And then he’d realised that she’d betrayed him- after all he’d done for her, after all he’d sacrificed for her. 

She had led him blithely to his doom.

“I should want you dead,” he repeated softly, fingers clenching in her blanket.

The hate should have risen in him at that thought, and pushed away all the regard he held for her, drowned out his doubts about ending her tenuous grip on life and saving himself. But instead, when he stared down on the face of the sleeping face of the woman who had nearly killed him, who had deceived him and lured him into a trap, all he felt was a choking rush of affection.

“You know I’m full of shit, don’t you? You always knew that.”

The wind howled outside, a desolate sound that made him feel like they were the only two people left in this world.

 “Don’t die, Brienne. After all this, don’t you dare die.”

He could pray to the gods to return her to him but what would be the point in that? No doubt, if the gods were real, they were looking down on him and finding him as horribly lacking as everyone else did. Instead, he slumped down beside her bed, leant his head back against the wall and tried to sleep. Curled up in the corner and shivering so hard that his muscles ached, he dreamt about it again.

_The sword had gone straight through her, the blade jutting out from her back. With a grunt the other man pulled it back out and a dark spray of blood followed it._

_“Oh!” The sound was so feminine, almost child-like, much like the delicate way she touched her fingers to the wound and bought them up to stare at them. She looked up again and met his eyes, smiled once, achingly content. As if this was meant to happen. As if she was now absolved._

_“No!” he screamed it, hoarsely, and sprang toward her, just in time to catch her as she took two stiff legged steps forward and then crumpled toward the ground. She was warm in his arms and the blood that gushed over his hand was warmer._

_Someone else cut the bastard down, the one who’d done this. He should have been the one to it, should have avenged her, but it seemed more important to kneel there and cradle her limp body against his._

_“Leave her, we have to go before the rest of them get here! She’s as good as dead.” Hyle’s hand was on his shoulder but he shook it off violently. He was right though, Jaime could hear the shouts in the distance, coming inexorably closer. Grunting he hooked his handless arm under Brienne’s legs and the other round her bleeding back, trying to haul her up and stumbling back to his knees under her dead weight and struggling up again._

_“Leave her!” shouted Hyle again as he turned his own horse around. Jaime ignored him, doing his best to haul Brienne up onto the nearest mount by the tenuous grip he had on her.  She was heavy enough that it would’ve been a struggle for him even with two hands._

_“I’m not leaving her,” hissed Jaime through teeth clenched with effort, knowing the other man probably wouldn’t even hear him. The Brotherhood were coming, some part of him acknowledged that he could hear the shouts more clearly now, the whoosh of arrows being fired.  But in that moment, all he could think about was Brienne and getting her in this damn saddle before she bled to death._

_He heard the hooves of Hyle’s horse thumping away, wanting to shout after him, to curse him. Brienne moaned and shifted in his arms, slipping out of his grasp, nearly falling back to the snowy ground.  And then the boy—Podrick— was there next to him, eyes bright with fear, and together they managed to haul Brienne’s dead weight up over the saddle. “Y-you have to go!” Pod called back as the boy scrambled as quickly as he could for his own horse._

_Jaime flung himself into the saddle, fumbling for the reins with his blood-drenched fingers— **Brienne’s blood** —hammering at the horse with his heels, almost falling off as it half-reared, and then he was riding, wind whipping in his face. The trees bounced and shuddered around him and it was all he could do to keep her on, to not think about her burbling, gasping breath or the amount of blood dripping from her stomach. _

 “Jaime…”

He jerked upright, suddenly completely awake, breathing hard. The lamp had long since burnt out and he could barely see the outline of her body on the bed, a slightly darker shape in the blackness.

“Brienne?”


End file.
